


Unfinished Earth

by KasmiKassim



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Caring Thranduil, Coming of Age, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Other, Parent Thranduil, Parent-Child Relationship, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, War, Young Legolas Greenleaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-15
Updated: 2004-09-15
Packaged: 2019-03-28 13:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KasmiKassim/pseuds/KasmiKassim
Summary: Trapped in a siege, Legolas' leadership is put to the test as the novice commander leads his people in a war of attrition, awaiting reinforcements that do not seem to be coming...





	1. Part 1

Part 1

'

The air tasted metallic.

The sour smell of copper blood mercilessly pervaded the forest, shading all who walked in its depths a deep hue of red. Dusts of dried blood hung heavily in the air, mingling in a suffocating blend of red and black. The foul stench lingered on the tongue with an acrid bitterness, unwilling to be wiped away, clinging to the skin with a stubborn will of its own.

The trees did not sing. They did not whisper, did not sigh. The speeches and the songs, which had been patiently taught by his kin many generations ago, were now silenced by the tired weight of heavy blood and the clamor of ragged screams. But the silence of the forest was a grim relief to his people, for it offered respite from the daily chain of endless shouts and cries. As long as sounds of death did not break it, silence was precious, silence was golden. The joyful memory of the songs and the whispers could be compromised easily for such a relief now, amid the weary hearts of the elves.

A light crunch sounded from underneath his feet. He frowned slightly, looking down upon the bloody ground. Remnants of jagged bones lay under him, grinding against each other like grainy pebbles. Soiled to dust, crumbling like ash. Such tactics were not often used by elves. They shot and slew swiftly, cleanly. But now, in the lone camp in the forest, the singed grains of the bones gave testimony to the grueling bloodbath that had soaked the land, the chaotic madness of murder and battle.

He usually did not make a sound when walking on – or climbing, or running or leaping, for that matter – well, whatever it may be that he walked on. And therefore, the sudden sound, however soft, took him by surprise. Blinking down at the bones, he smiled ruefully. His body seemed unwilling to obey the commands of its normal habit and training; the weight of blood on the green leaves of the woods was pulling him down with a groan, heavy and weary.

With a determined inhalation, he readjusted the leather strap that ran across his chest and held his quiver in place. Doggedly running his tongue over the smooth surface of his teeth, wiping away the dust particles of dried blood that coated them, he swallowed, and stood erect. He would not let the black blood of wretched lives and deaths weigh upon him. He was the only figure that stood between his people and their doom.

He turned, determined gaze sweeping through the trees one last time. The mountains loomed nearby, overshadowing the small clearing that lay in the heart of the dark woods. All around them stretched never-ending seas of trees, entrapping them in their safe haven of thin sunlight. Stacks of black bodies lay in a circular pile, creating a thick barricade against the surrounding forest that loomed so near. Small openings were deliberately left in between the heavy corpses in a methodical order, through which keen arrows protruded readily. Archers were kneeling on the ground, hidden behind the barricade, bows drawn and bodies taut.

When at last his steps began to head back to the cluster of tents that stood in the middle of the barricaded camp, his eyes met thoughtful dark ones. He nodded slightly in greeting, refusing to let his weariness show. Not to this advisor.

When he made to head for his tent, the dark-haired advisor slowly moved in his direction. So there was no escape. He let out a quiet breath. It mattered not. He could not avoid this; he would not avoid this. He stopped and waited for the advisor to approach. It would be meaningless to continue to run, to hide. He would have to face this for many years to come, continually prove himself. Not only for the satisfaction of the advisor, but for the confidence of his people. For approval from the voice of his own strict conscience.

The older elf bowed slightly in response to the calm greeting. "There is still no sign of relenting. Sooner or later, they will attack again." The respectful voice belied the cool sharpness that emanated from his words. He was waiting. What will you do now, little one?

Clear blue eyes focused on the orbs of brown. He did not need to think long. "We will continue to fight. Our people are not yet ready to give up hope."

The advisor's hard gaze did not yield. They looked straight into the depths of his mind, daring, challenging. "Time is against us. Each day that passes in our entrapment under their siege diminishes our hope."

When he was met with silence, he pressed on further.

"Send for reinforcements, my prince. The king will come to our aid."

The youth's jaw tensed. "Who will go for aid, Lord Tembor?" Blue eyes searched dark ones gravely. "Who should be the one to penetrate the thickening layers of orc arrows and reach the castle?"

The advisor's voice was even. "Send any at will. The warriors will obey you. You are our leader."

The young prince watched the advisor in silence. The air was thick and heavy; he could not breathe.

There was a chance that his father would come to his aid. The news of their predicament would doubtlessly have reached the castle by now. Legolas knew his father well, but he had not seen enough of the dangerous gleam in his father's eyes in the battlefield to safely guess how the warrior king would respond to the news. The tidings of his son leading a battle that he could not win; the news of his people trapped in the southern maze of the forest, Dol Guldur only a breath away from their throats, holding out against a siege. Stranded alone amid a sea of orcs, supplies and strength dwindling, the enemy swelling. There was no need to send a messenger and ask for reinforcements. They would come eventually.

The question was time. It was a war of attrition now, something that they had not expected when they set out to scout the new area ensnared in darkness. His father would know of this sooner or later, that much was certain – but it was now a race, a race against time. They had to fight against their own weariness, their decreasing resources and hope, as they continued to protect themselves in the heart of the enemy's territory. Reinforcements were a surety and a hope, but nonetheless distant; the king himself had marched with his people not long ago toward the eastern marshes, concerned about the darkness that had appeared recently in the hidden swamps. Contact had been broken, and none knew if he had returned safely. Reinforcements were a luxury that none could dare hope for anytime soon.

Lowering his eyes, the prince heaved a great breath. "No, Tembor." Looking upward, he smiled faintly at the silent advisor. "I will not send for aid. We will continue to fight."

The older elf did not argue. With a slight bow, he excused himself to join the guards.

When the dark-haired elf was out of sight, Legolas' shoulders sagged visibly. His courage had been waning little by little, with each day spent in silence, each eerie quietude ripped apart by a blood-curdling scream. And with each conversation with Tembor.

But the advisor was not the one who had planted the seed of wavering doubt in the young commander's mind. No, the seed had already been there, and the roots had grown, the solid foundations of his strength already cracking silently through time. Though the prince was strong of will and fierce in heart, his ground had been already tampered with, prepared to break and crumble beneath his feet when met with a sudden attack. What had been done by the orcs and the siege was only a final touch of the destruction that had progressed, already at the peak of its utmost decay.

He had heard the adamant disapproval of the court advisors when the king mentioned him as the leader of the expedition to the southern woods. Legolas had been present at the council, as was customary, when his father surprised all who were present by ignoring the oppositions of the council members. He had only looked straight at his son, awaiting an answer.

With a strange sense of numbness, Legolas began to walk. His feet carried him forward idly as he chewed on his lip.

Do not think. Do not think. Do not think.

He desperately replayed the mantra over and over in his head, willing the whirling images and deafening sounds to leave the vacuum of his mind. He could not surrender to despair now; he could not disappoint his father. He could not disappoint himself. He had heard the advisors' reasoning and concern when he accepted his father's offer. He knew of the stakes as well as his father did, as well as the advisors did. He was young and, though experienced and seasoned in battle, was yet to be proven in his ability to lead and command. It was only natural for the council members to consider their prince unprepared for such a danger. His eyes were still young and vivacious, and his body was lithe and willowy, not yet hardened from the ripening of adolescence. He had only just reached his majority.

But his father's eyes had asked him the question, directed neither at the youngster nor the warrior, but at the prince and the son of the leader of the people. And the prince was not one to refuse, not when he saw what his father was asking.

So he had nodded.

Another soft crunch rang dully in his ears. His eyes looked down, barely perceived the flattened pile of bone particles underneath his feet. Stained with dried red and black. He numbly ran his foot from side to side, watching with fascination as the powdered bone spread like sand upon the ground. Portions of the grains seeped into minute cracks on the hard, dried earth.

Legolas' gaze became lost in the small stretches of the abyss. The yellow cracks reminded him of unfinished earthenware that he had once seen in a pottery workshop. The firing had been done, but the apprentice who was making it had mistakenly left an entrapment of air within the ceramic bowl. And when fire was breathed upon the dark bowl, transforming it into a hue of red, a deep crack had appeared along the dry surface, marring the beauty of the craftsmanship. The piece had been left unfinished, as firing it further would result in an explosion; the beautiful red bowl of dried earth would shatter, spew out the deep moisture of the earth, and it would collapse into itself, engulfing the hearth with a blazing fire that would dance, lick, swallow the remnants of what had once been. Everything, burned to nothingness.

Perhaps if they battled enough, viciously clawing and tearing at each other – perhaps if they spilled enough blood upon the earth, staining it, perhaps if they poured enough grains of bone dust into its cracks – perhaps then, the earth would open up and swallow them too, consume them in bright avenging fire.

Eyes vacant, he resumed his walk.

He had already read his father's thoughts when he accepted the proposition. The expedition was a dangerous one, and there was slim chance of making significant discoveries. Success was a secondary agenda; he was either going to bring his people back safely, or die in the attempt. The ways of royalty were clear and simple. One would choose the most dangerous path of all, and lead the way in hopes of clearing the path for his people to tread – and if meant stepping over his corpse, so be it. Though many flourishing regimes of elves and men were beginning to enter a new era in the ever-changing world, retreating into a system guaranteed of safety and posterity, the elves of Mirkwood still lived every day in the traditions of the past. Shrouded within the dark depths of the mysterious forest, they lived each day for nothing but itself, living out the legend and lore of valor and danger. Surrounded by life-threatening menaces and forced to fight every day for a right to exist, the code of the Mirkwood elves was plain and true to the heart of the rustic valor that flowed through their ancient veins. And the kings and their heirs followed these simple truths faithfully, wielding blades and bows at the front lines of battle, leaving the worry for tomorrow up to those who would survive to live another day.

His senses were painfully reawakened to the crude stench of blood as a guard raised a shout. Swiftly notching an arrow to his bow, he flew to the barricade and kneeled between the tense guards, watching. Distant rumbling could be heard. The orcs were on the move.

The pounding of feet upon the ground gave a slight shudder to the bloodied surface of the earth on which they stood. Gripping his bow, Legolas' fingers slid against the thin coat of bloody dust, ashy against the smooth wood. An inaudible melody of battle began to run along his veins with a faint hum, a familiar song of death. As it drummed louder and louder in his heart, propelling his limbs into practiced movement, he watched himself take a battle stance, his honed body all too ready to launch into the familiar dance of battle. And soon he would be swept up in the thundering roar of the drums, the pounding music of blood and screams, as feet trampled the earth, flying among the corpses, blades glistening under the dulled sun. And he would lose himself in it, the frenzy of battle, and his soul would watch from afar, distantly, calmly, as his body performed the deathly dance with practiced ease and fluid grace. And when the roar died down, fading into a distant hum, he would either be a part of the faded remnants of nothingness upon the stained dust of the earth, or still be standing, bloodied and weary, reaching out forlornly toward the dull rays of the sun.

All of the elves were kneeling behind the barricade now, arrows notched and eyes alert. A portion of the army was lying at the center of the circular wall, nursing their debilitating injuries. Though injuries had been recurrent, no elf had lost a life so far; to Legolas, that alone was his victory, his only and the greatest.

Raising his hand, he gave a signal. Behind the archers stood the lancers, weapons ready. The small fortress, built with nothing but a circle of stacked orc corpses, now resembled a porcupine, baring its teeth at all intruders from outside.

Legolas slowly raised his bow. The rest of the archers followed suit. Their eyes glittered sharply.

They would hold out against the siege for a long time yet; rations were still aplenty, and no warrior was yet wearied. They were still determined and ready, their spirits calm and experienced in the face of battle.

And he alone stood between them and despair.

Even if the orcs swept over their small encampment with sheer number and brute force, the elves would go down with a vicious struggle; their spirits would be unconquered. The true battle that raged in their hearts was the battle against the loss of hope. The battle for inner strength. And for Legolas, that battle was ten times worse, the daily pressures and pain silently gnawing at his scorching heart.

The first glinting pair of eyes appeared. Legolas released his arrow.

Against the swarming mass of orcs, the endless net that threatened to enclose them in doom, the elves began their retaliation.

'

'

'

To Be Continued

'


	2. Part 2

Part 2

'

'

_"Please, Ada."_

_The king nearly fell forward as the child clutched his armor tightly, preventing him from taking another step. With a soft sigh, he turned; large eyes looked up at him, glazed and pleading. Thranduil smiled wistfully._

_"I will return soon, Legolas."_

_"But they say the marshes are deadly!" insisted the boy, his trembling voice now a lilting confusion of adolescence and childhood. "Let me go with you. You know I am capable of defending myself." His clutch tightened around his father's armor._

_With a soft sigh, Thranduil turned fully around, and kneeled upon the carpeted floor. Though the child was no longer a baby-faced elfling, his frame was quite small for his age; supple limbs were yet soft and tender, not yet begun in their transformation. Yet a child._

_Innocent eyes swam as the prince blinked back toward his father's direct gaze. Thranduil smiled tenderly, caressing the small hands that refused to let him go, lest he slip away._

_"I would take you, Legolas," said the king, "but you are not yet tall enough. The mud in the swamp reaches up to a grown elf's chest."_

_The boy bit his lip, eyes filling with tears. His grip moved from the armor to a hand, trembling._

_Then go with me when I am older._

_The words echoed in his lips, silent against the quiet air of the study. Yet he did not voice them out loud; the young prince knew already the code that they were to live by. The code that promised safety for the wood elves – the code that stood proudly upon the stakes of royal lives. He lowered his head._

_"You will have your turn, Legolas," soothed his father, stroking his hair with a free hand. "You will have more than enough of it. You will grow weary of it before long, and yet you will have to continue to fight."_

_I only want a turn to fight by your side, Ada._

_Again, the words were unvoiced; instead, the elfling nodded mutely._

_With a smile, his father patted his head. The child chewed painfully on his lip. He wished to be a child no longer. He wished to fight by his father's side. He wished to take the burden away from his father; he no longer wished to see his father riding into the darkness of the forest, bandaged and bruised, raising yet another vigorous call for his warriors. Legolas was weary of waiting at home, staying up nights, jumping to the window at every hoof beat._

_But those thoughts remained silent as his father rose to his feet, light armor concealing the bandages that lined the hard body underneath._

_"You remember what I told you about being a king, do you not?" asked his father, lightly stroking his hair. The prince nodded, swallowing hard._

_"Do you still wish that I were not a king, little Greenleaf?" The gentle question halted the youngster's train of thought. Blinking, he looked up, and met his father's questioning eyes._

_"Do you enjoy being a king, Ada?" he whispered. His widened eyes were afraid._

_With a faint smile, the king turned to the window. The mist was ever dark upon the lands, sinister in its looming presence._

_"Every living creature has its place in the tapestry of life." He turned to look down upon his child again, and smiled. "My place is found, for it is where many people need me to be, where I can be of most help to others."_

_The child did not answer. The king's eyes became wistful._

_"Once you find your place, there is no regret. You will find yours someday as well."_

_The child bit his lip again, and lowered his gaze._

_He was young, but he knew. He knew that there was a way to escape the burdens of royalty. He knew that he could be free if he wished. But his father refused to be free, because he was at the place where he would be most needed. And he had made his choice._

_One could either run away from the burden, or take it willingly and turn it into a crown jewel. He never once wished to discard his title of prince. He knew that he would grow to hunt with his people, and protect his people at the battlefront. Not only did he embrace his destiny, but he strove to excel in it, to make it a shining jewel and weapon and armor that belonged to him. A fragment of himself, of what he was._

_But it hurt nonetheless._

_It hurt when he had to watch his father ride away, leaving him behind. When he had to see his father return with injuries. It still hurt._

_As his father kissed his cheek and stood, leaving the room with a whoosh of his dark cloak, the child stood still, head bowed, fighting the urge to collapse onto his knees and weep. The room suddenly seemed so large, so empty._

_He was the prince. He was loved by all. And he needed to repay that love. He needed to be by his father's side._

_Clenching his fist, he took a deep breath. Raising his head, his eyes glittered fiercely. He would not be able to speed up time, but he would strive to go forth to meet it._

_Gripping his bow tight, he exited the chamber, and headed to the practice fields._

'

'

'

Soft moans and whispers of comfort hovered gently in the air, enveloping the injured bodies on the ground, shielding them from the raw stench of death that hung among the trees. Legolas walked amidst them grimly, lending his skills to aid the uninjured warriors who were tending to the wounded. His lips seldom moved, occasionally curving upward for a genuine smile accompanying a wounded soldier in good humor, and sometimes moving in a silent murmur of comfort to a moaning warrior during healing ministrations. And not a single ragged scream pierced the thick fog of fresh death; the moans were soft, bitten down in painful endurance, as the elves struggled to press down the darkness that threatened to conquer them. The battle with oneself continued on.

The young prince was composed, ever calm, when one of the warriors reported that their food supply had dwindled.

"We cannot starve," stated the prince matter-of-factly, creasing his brows to stare at the trees. "These leaves do not look edible, however."

As long as their prince the commander remained unaffected by the grimness of their predicament, the elven warriors were free from panic or despair. Following his spirited comments and smiling countenance, the elves went about gathering food from what little ground space they were given against the surrounding orcs. And when their rations were finally exhausted, they were not discouraged, for the prince joined their meal of tree bark and roots jovially, sitting with the warriors on the flat ground that breathed blood-stained dust upon hardened mud. Their hearts were not yet worn.

When the advisor approached him again two days later, Legolas knew that this would be the final time. And he was forced to consider his choices with care.

Standing still and alone amid the round clearing, looking around at the warriors who stood guard, who tended to the injured, sharpened weapons – his breaths were quiet, a cool blue among the darkness. Waiting for the advisor to approach.

"I will be the messenger," said the dark-haired elf, his sword in hand. "Let me go, for I am the one who proposed it."

He was a quiet shadow upon the night. Moans around them were growing dimmer, softer. Hushed into gentle quietude.

Dusk was falling.

The moon was rising high into the sky, bright and white against the dim blue of foggy night. After every weary day came a soothing, calming night, the silver rays of the moon penetrating the thick dust that the sun could not. Whereas the sun embraced the copper red dust, allowed it to dance amidst its heated rays, the moonlight calmed the particles of blood, quieted the moans of pain. And though the danger remained close and imminent upon their throats, the elves looked up to the moon and sighed in a strange sense of relief, resting their weary hearts.

The moon had waxed. It would be full soon, as full as it had been when they first set out on the expedition.

The prince did not answer. He stared up at the moon, silent. The advisor waited patiently. Guards stood as shadows outlined by a film of white, unmoving. Quiet movements stirred here and there, but the night was enveloped in gentle peace.

At last, the prince raised his hand, and wearily ran it down his face. "Forgive me for dictating your actions in the name of rank," he said quietly. "But as commander, I cannot let you ride out to certain death."

The dark eyes of the advisor hardened. "You do realize," he said in a low voice, "that you may summon the deaths of all of your soldiers if you do not risk this."

At this, the young commander's eyes slowly came down to meet the steely gaze of the advisor. The pale blue glittered under the moon, as keen as the blades which he had wielded at the forefront earlier that day.

"I have weighed my choices, Tembor." His voice was even. "One certain death against an uncertain annihilation." He turned and walked toward the injured, crouching into the darkness of the night as he lowered himself to tend to a soldier.

And the advisor stood still, sword in hand, outlined by the quiet rays of the moon.

After that night, Tembor said no more; many days passed, and darkness continued to thicken around the army of elves.

'

'

'

Another suffocating day.

Seated upon the hard ground plastered with blood, Legolas watched his fellow warriors take small sips from their bowls of light brown water. They were sitting in a circle, chatting amiably, occasionally sipping out of the bowl. His own bowl lay on his lap, untouched. Chewing his lip, he looked around, keen eyes scouring the small clearing. The wounded lay in the center, more numerous than the day before. The warriors who carried less grave injuries were busily moving about, carrying on their duties diligently despite the markings of copper dust etched upon their bodies. An even layer of them stood along the circular barricade, alert for danger; a number of them were at the center, tending to the wounded; a portion of them scurried to and fro, sharpening weapons, cleaning the cloaks and bandages for the wounded, taking count of the injured and those still able to fight, boiling more hard earth into soup. They would soon enter their own meal after being relieved of their duty by those who accompanied Legolas for the meal.

Heavy dust and grime coated all life in sight now, settling among the silent trees like a dark fog. The dust was red, the grime was black; singed bones crunched beneath their feet, and orc corpses continued to thicken the barricade. The weary elves survived on boiled soil, the hard, cracked earth. The trees were no longer silent. They were moaning softly, painfully. The forest had been stained.

They had been holding out against the orcs for a whole cycle of the moon now. They were cornered, alone, and undoubtedly waiting. Whether it was aid or doom they were awaiting, Legolas no longer knew. And he doubted any of them knew either. Their hearts were also covered in the weary dust, their ears mournful upon silent moans from the trees.

Legolas had not dared to send for aid when they were first captured in the midst of the ring of orcs. And now, it was too late.

Was it pride?

His mind wondered briefly, dusty teeth biting into chapped flesh. Had he been too proud to send for help, too eager to prove himself?

Perhaps it was.

He admitted it without hesitation, gaze wandering toward the elves who sat around him and conversed in spirited voices. It was true that he wanted to prove himself. But he refused to feel shame for his actions, or lack thereof, for the only audience he had wanted was himself. He had not aimed for his father, who had granted him this responsibility without a word; he had not aimed for the court advisors, who had violently opposed the young prince's partaking in the expedition; he had not aimed for his fellow warriors, who followed his will without the smallest voice of protest, who gathered around him with absolute trust and love. No, he had not aimed to please anyone. Even himself. He had not wished to please.

But the responsibility was his, and his alone. And he knew that his father's eyes were asking him if he was ready, and he was old enough to know that the responsibility belonged on his young shoulders. That he had to be ready, that he could remain sheltered no longer. He had willingly accepted, knowing that this was the way things were to be; he had followed the rustic ways of his uncivilized people, thrust himself at the forefront, however young and inexperienced, for he knew enough to be ready, his heart was old enough to be ready. Ready to fight at the forefront to defend his people, regardless of what the outcome may be.

To call for help would be a breach of the unspoken pact, a shattering disappointment for himself.

Perhaps it was pride; perhaps it was not. This was the prince's first experience in leading an army separate from the main forces, and to call for help would not only disappoint, but forever change him. Everything that he was, everything that he would be. The defender of his people, the prince of the warrior elves.

He had to stand on his own. He had to stand before his people, steady as a pillar, unwilling to bend even if it meant he would crack and shatter to pieces in the roaring fire. He could not ask for aid. Aid would come, sooner or later, but that was of little importance. He would keep his people alive, keep them hopeful. He would lead them through the darkness, show them light. He would do what he knew he was born to do.

He smiled ruefully. If Arwen heard his thoughts, she would undoubtedly call him foolish. A hardheaded wood elf, as she was fond of calling him. His eyes softened upon the reminiscence of her.

Lifting his eyes up to the dusty yellow skies, searching forlornly for the hidden rays of the sun, he found himself praying that he would see her again. But his silent prayers did not extend to his family. His mind did not reach the image of his father, for that was a forbidden territory, a sacred haven. No, he would not pray to see him again, for he would refuse to believe otherwise; he would not give in to fear. He would not despair.

Looking down at his untouched soup, he took a deep breath. With nonchalance, he brought the bowl determinedly to his lips. The chatter around him died down, and his comrades watched him in surprise, for they were fully aware of his reluctance to consume the poor substitute for food. It was he who had thought up of the solution to their absence of rations, but he himself did not feed himself or grant himself rest.

Eyes lowered, seemingly unaware of – or simply not bothered by – the eyes that stared, the young prince doggedly drank down the entire bowl of boiled earth, and put down the empty bowl with a thud. Raising his eyes, he tilted his head when he saw fellow elves staring at him. With a light smile, he rose, and moved away toward the wounded, relieving a healer to rise and join the meal.

The assembled soldiers looked down at their own bowls of boiled soil and water, and resolutely began to drink.

'

'

'

To Be Continued


	3. Part 3

Part 3

'

'

_The door to the study opened soundlessly, slow and deliberate. A blond head poked its way inside, a curtain of flaxen hair spilling over the shoulders and hanging down in a gentle wave. After swiftly scanning the study, he found the object of his search, and slipped inside with a satisfied smile. Carefully closing the door behind himself, he leaned back against the wooden surface, twinkling eyes thirstily drinking in the sight before him._

_Tassels of blond hair stretching across the red seat stirred; and then, the wild strands dipped and slid off of the seat, flowing down into a golden cataract. Small hands were stuffed close to the curled body, huddled into the corner of the large plush chair. The eyes were invisible, as the child's head was tucked into his chest like a napping kitten, all parts of his small body withdrawn into itself save the hanging strands of hair._

_The father watched soundlessly._

_At length, the small elf stirred; instinctively sensing a presence in the room, however silent, he murmured sleepily and raised his head. Unfocused eyes turned to the door, and spotted the king; the young elf blinked, rubbing his eyes. When he looked again, his cleared eyes widened, and he leaped off of the chair with a cry. The king chuckled and detached himself from the door._

_"Ada!"_

_The force of the embrace knocked the breath out of the king. He remained silent, however, holding his son tight, until finally Legolas regained his bearings and raised his head from the armor that seemed strangely incongruent with his father's abdomen._

_"Are you hurt?" He gingerly fingered the armor._

_The king smiled. "It does not hurt."_

_Legolas instantly stepped back. His reproachful expression made his father droop his eyes sadly. "Ai, do not look at me so, little Greenleaf. I have had enough of that on the way home."_

_With a scowl, the younger elf scuttled toward a large oaken cabinet by the wall. "You are the worst patient I have ever seen," he declared with an unhappy frown, crouching before the opened cabinet and pulling out bandages and clean patches of cloth. "Ethelea said such patients are difficult and immature." He threw an accusatory glance over his shoulder, while his father made sluggish progress toward the center of the spacious study. Thranduil simply chuckled in response._

_The walk toward the large settee before the hearth seemed to last forever. But it was so much more bearable than the ride home, for he was at last with the chiding voice and the accusing eyes again. Even the harshest of reprimands from his little one was an irreplaceable ray of the sun, especially after what he had experienced only a few days ago. The perpetual stench of blood seemed freshened and blown gently away, the screams and groans silenced, and the images of broken bodies erased, by the mere presence of his little Greenleaf. Yes, his little leaf breathed life. He inhaled deeply._

_He never went to healers after his returns anymore. As the healers fussed over his wounds, his mind would wander in a faraway realm, replaying the scenes of bloodbath over and over again, eyes hollow and distant with dark terror. He would hear screams that drowned out worried voices, and he would see blood and corpses instead of white bandages and balm. He would feel blades breaking into his flesh and blows breaking his bones, instead of soothing hands that touched his skin. And treading the halls in silent contemplation, the king would be a haunted spirit, a faded echo of a sparkle and a laughter of ages long past. Treading the empty halls in solitude, lost in the foggy realm of dreams in which screams and moans hung heavily in the air, the silent phantom of the exuberant youth who vibrated with life would tread on and on, his bare feet ever silent upon the blood that coated the earth. And under the dulled rays of the sun, the copper red earth would be hard and cracked beneath his feet, swallowing the ashes and powders of bones that grinded into the crevices of dark abyss – ever ready to collapse and swallow him, burn him in bright, avenging fire._

_The only link to reality that pulled him back from the realm of dreams was his little Greenleaf. The child who ran into his arms, heedless of the red and black blood that marred his skin. The child whose innocent voice called him back from his haunted wanderings through the blood-red mist, whose soft arms wrapped themselves lovingly around his broken body, whose hands caressed his dirtied wounds, whose laughing lips kissed dried, weary cheeks. The ringing laughter drowned out the moans, and those sparkling eyes sucked him into a world that was beautiful beyond comprehension, a breathtaking world of the vast twilight sky, where he was taken up to soar among the stars of heaven and treaded not on this weary earth. The child's gaze, his voice, his touches – all of them, his child, his beautiful green leaf; he cleansed away the blood and tears that stained his soul, the silent fury and grief that burned within his haunted eyes._

_Which was why he no longer went to the healers after returning from expeditions._

_Ignoring the pleas and the pursuits, he would jump off of his horse and give quick instructions, listen to reports while striding down the hall. And he would dismiss his worried followers, and disappear into the corridor leading to his chambers, still in full armor barely rinsed of the blood stains. And he would slip quietly into his study, no matter how loudly his broken body protested; it was his irreplaceable moment of priceless bliss to stand leaning against the door, watching the child curled upon his chair, soft hair streaming down his face and small hands tucked beneath his body. He would relish the silent moment, allowing his weary body to rest, his frenzied heart to calm. The child would always be curled upon the chair – or occasionally the furs on the floor by the hearth – lost in a restless sleep of anxiety and fatigue. And watching him, the father's mind would slowly return from its wanderings through the haunted dream, the scattered pieces of reality that hung in the air in a thick fog slowly condensing, solidifying into the form of his child – and his vision would clear, the world would be focused again, regaining its center in the form of the child._

_Slow fingers removed his armor piece by piece, dropping the parcels unceremoniously upon the floor as he moved toward the settee. When he finally reached his destination, now clad in only a light tunic, he heaved a great breath and collapsed onto the cushions. Half-reclining, he did not bother to adjust his position upon the cushions. Though he took care to control his movements, however, his body was disobedient; Legolas' head snapped back upon the sound of a creak._

_"What -" he stopped short when he saw his father waving a hand dismissively. Legolas scowled deeper, and snatched up the remaining items that he had been digging out. "Why are you not in a healing chamber?"_

_The king chuckled. "Why the trouble, when I have a healer here?" He threw a jaunty smile at the child, who was now moving toward him with arms full with bandages and balm and herbs. Dropping the items into a heap by his father's feet, Legolas hurried toward the washroom._

_"I am still in training," called out a frustrated voice above the violent roar of water. The king chuckled again. Legolas reappeared with a basin of steaming water._

_As the king watched with amusement twinkling in his eyes, his son crouched onto the floor by the settee, busily gathering the scattered items, and sprang to his feet to fetch a piece of equipment he had forgotten, rummaging through unused drawers, cursing his lack of sleep during the last weeks for the disorientated state of mind, running around in a fuss, and creating havoc in general._

_When at last he was sure that he had everything he needed, Legolas crouched by his father's feet again. He picked up a healing herb, and groaned; he leaped to his feet once more, darting to the cabinet. The king's study was laden with such healing items – though they remained hidden in a corner of the cabinet – for he never went straight to a healer after his trips. And thus Legolas took it upon himself to make his father's study a makeshift healing chamber, however clumsily made._

_Thranduil lazily lifted his head, watching his son with amusement in his drooping eyes._

_"Leave those frivolities and come here," he murmured, beckoning with a hand. Legolas raised a resentful gaze, but after a brief mental debate tumbling in his transparent eyes, withdrew his hands from the cabinet. Slow steps crossed the space between himself and his father. It was obvious that his father was exhausted; the wounds would be able to wait until he fell asleep._

_Kneeling before his father, who leaned languidly upon the settee and reached out to stroke his hair, Legolas held his breath. A dark scar ran down his father's abdomen, partly concealed by the tunic that flapped loosely around his waist. The scar was fresh, snatches of dark blood seeping out and spreading against the hard flesh every time he moved. The skin was ashen._

_"Something wrong, Greenleaf?" asked his father softly. Strong fingers stroked his hair, over and over again. "Tell me what happened while I was away."_

_Raising anxious eyes, Legolas smiled tremulously. "Ah, nothing is wrong, Ada. I...I just missed you." Clearing his throat, he seated himself comfortably upon the floor, gently placing his hands upon his father's knees – and yet his hands hovered uncertainly over the skin, shaking slightly in his ghostly caresses. "Nothing is wrong." He smiled again, eyes shimmering with a bright silver sheen._

_Thranduil smiled. He continued to stroke the soft golden head, urging him silently to go on. Legolas swallowed hard._

_"I delivered a foal, Ada," he said, his trembling voice light and bright. "The mare is healthy, and so is the foal. It's a colt. Very strong. And...um...the twins sent a message, and they said..."_

_And so the child continued to chat away, his voice as bright and shimmering as the glaze in his eyes, as his father slumped in his chair, listening with a contented smile, a weary hand slowing to a rest atop his child's warm head. And as the chatter faded away into silence, the prince lowered his head onto his father's lap, and his shoulders trembled soundlessly before the glazed eyes of his unconscious father. And thus he remained, shaking silently, a small forlorn child in the quiet hush of the study._

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"He has been holding out against the siege for over a month."

Haldir watched the king clasp on the leather strap of his scabbard. Long blond hair swirled in the air as the king threw on his cloak. He began to stride down the hall, followed by his warriors; Haldir matched the king's brisk strides.

"You are still unwell, my lord. Allow me to accompany your warriors in your stead."

Thranduil turned his head toward the impassive face of the Lorien warrior. His eyes softened as Haldir met his gaze in silence. The earnest eyes were unmistakable, but Thranduil was not one to back down. He reached out and clasped the Marchwarden's shoulder affectionately.

"No, my lord Haldir. My son has been left alone in the wild long enough. It is time."

Haldir's eyes were ever watchful, his movements subtle and swift, as he followed the king to the front of the castle. The king's stallion was waiting before the gates, and he mounted swiftly. Though his body swayed from exhaustion once atop the saddle, his expression was determined. He turned back to smile at his gray-clad companion, who was now mounted on his own horse, eying him with concern.

"You will be surprised to see how he has grown, Haldir."

Haldir nodded silently.

With another fleeting smile, the king nudged his horse forward. The stallion broke into a gallop, and the green mass of elves broke forward in a thundering roar of hooves. The deadly storm swept through the forest with a wild determined fury, headed by the injured king, surrounded by elves on both sides and the rear.

Thranduil's eyes blazed into the forest path. Injured though he was, no elf rode before him; he would always be at the forefront, as his little Greenleaf would. The rest of Mirkwood always saw his back, tall and broad against the coming of death, unfaltering and strong. And his child, the young, slender youth, his precious, innocent child – he was standing before his people as well, his lithe shoulders spread out between his people and the coming darkness. And he would not turn, he would not step back. Thranduil knew better than anyone.

His little Greenleaf.

Thranduil's jaw tightened. He urged his horse to go faster, when a flash of platinum gold invaded his vision.

It was Haldir, his stallion galloping up to his side. The elves realigned, now spread about the two who rode at the forefront. Thranduil glanced quickly toward the elf who rode with him, smiling to himself. The cobalt blue eyes of the Lorien elf were set on the path before him, expressionless. The Marchwarden of Lorien was in every way a warrior, possessing a spirit to match a lord or king. A strange coincidence it was indeed, that he chose this moment of the year to stop by Mirkwood during one of his travels. And of course, he could not be convinced to stay behind to rest his travel-worn body. His appearance was dusty and weary, but his movements and eyes were as sharp as they always were; no sign of fatigue or weakened resolve lingered in those penetrating orbs. Thranduil lowered his body, feeling his hair whip at his shoulders. He suspected that Haldir of Lorien did not come to Mirkwood in this time of danger just out of coincidence.

"He has been surviving on boiled soil and dried tree roots, I speculate." A roguish smile was thrown in Haldir's way before the king turned back to urge his horse on faster. A faint smile surfaced upon the Lorien elf's lips as well.

"He has grown much indeed," he mused. He could almost see Thranduil's lips smirk in pride. There was so much felt between them, a poignant vibration of memories shared, and yet so little to say – and so he remained silent, close to the king.

The trees began to thin out rapidly; the foliage grew sparse and dark. The horses slowed as they came upon a clearing of dry, cracked land. An eerie silence hung among the trees that stood in a distance; mountains loomed just beyond the surrounding trees, shrouded in copper-red dust. Thranduil's sharp eyes focused upon the small stronghold in the center of the clearing. Haldir pulled the reins, slowing down his stallion to stand by the king.

A torn green flag flapped quietly in the heavy air, speared by a broken lance that stood wedged between a block of what looked like a circular black wall. His heart clenched. A symbol of life, of victory and goodness that still, stubbornly, prevailed upon the land – as always, standing proud upon the stakes of royal lives.

Haldir's head turned swiftly in time with Thranduil's. Both warriors watched with glittering eyes as a black mass swarmed among the trees from the other side of the stronghold, moving stealthily through the thick foliage of the forest, shrouded in the fog of blood. Haldir quietly readjusted the grip on his bow.

So, the platoon of elves had stationed themselves in the center of the enemy's mouth, where teeth could not reach. The orcs would not be able to attack them continuously as long as they remained poised in the clearing devoid of trees and shade. Leave it to Legolas and his people to charge into the heart of the enemy's turf and build a fortress there. As far as Haldir could remember, the prince had never shown interest in defensive elements of battle – always moving into critical range first, swirling knives at the enemy before a sword could be raised in his direction. The reminiscence, coming back like a gentle fog to merge with the present situation with gut-twisting similarity, brought a mirthless smile to Haldir's lips. The stranded elves had been refusing to send a messenger through the teeth of orcs that swarmed in the forest paths, battling by day and resting by night. Favoring uncertain annihilation against a certain death of a messenger, for they knew well what choosing the latter meant – this battalion was doubtlessly led by a royal captain of Greenwood.

Haldir pulled out an arrow.

The orcs were closing in. Watching the lonely fortress amidst the swarming black mass, Haldir was reminded of a small pond in Lorien that lay quietly amid the vast stretches of rustling weeds that encircled it. The only difference between the two, Haldir realized with a cold twist in his stomach as he moved closer, was that this little pond was surrounded by piled-up bodies of mutilated orcs, which constructed the barricade that held the tattered flag.

He shuddered. What a warning.

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"Well met, my lords."

Haldir bowed as the young prince threw the last orc body off of himself and turned to greet them with a courteous bow. His face was pale, and his hair was devoid of its golden luster. His voice was quiet and calm, though his breaths were labored, weary of the fog of blood that suffocated the air.

As the young elf guided them around the encampment, explaining quietly what had transpired during the month-long stalemate, Haldir observed the subtle aura of weariness in the eyes of the captain. Though his voice and gestures retained a youthful vitality, and his fair face held a striking brightness of youth, the liveliness of his vigor was tarnished by the air of exhaustion that surrounded the young commander.

All throughout the report, the king remained voiceless, simply nodding in response. No questions were asked, for none were needed; though the prince was young, his detailed and efficient report radiated ages of experience. When he was finished, and turned to face the king and the warrior who had come as a brother in arms, he drew in a quiet breath, expectant. His pallid face was set in an edge of steel, forced bravado and resignation mingling in an air of acceptance and preparation for – reprimand? Judgment? Haldir could not ascertain.

But he was no fool; shooting a glance in the king's direction, he left his side, and joined the king's warriors as they gathered the wounded and waded through the orc bodies that littered the forest floor. When he glanced back, he saw the prince now standing alone, his eyes lost and vulnerable as he faced his father.

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Legolas did not break the silence. After Haldir left them, the elves standing behind the king also began to move away, presumably prompted by Haldir's subtle gestures. Legolas did not know whether to be grateful for the guardian's silent understanding, or to be restless and irritated to be thrown into this situation. To be left alone with his father was a dreaded, though inevitable, stepping stone. No, not a stepping stone; it was an end. This would decide the ending, complete the episode of the tale.

But somehow, Legolas had the feeling that the end was already drawn, the tale already told. The moment with his father would only punctuate it, shoot the arrow of cold reality into his dully aching heart.

The wounded were everywhere. He himself was among the few who remained standing, and even he was plagued with injuries and fatigue. Here, stranded alone and cut off from world outside, shrouded in the copper dust of blood and grime, time had slowed into a lethargic torture of a dream, a fantasy of a stretched continuum; his sense had been dulled, his body intoxicated, only coming to life while unleashing the furious battle dance along with the pulsating rhythm of drumbeats, his soul watching impassively from afar as his body danced in sync with the terrible music of war that flooded the dry, red earth. Now the dust was thickened, and ashes haunted his steps, bones scrunching under his feet – and yet time had returned, and reality had pierced through the sluggish veil of the dreamlike existence that had enveloped them for so long. The invisible walls of corpses and blood and dried earth that had been built in the past month, the hardened walls that had braced him and supported him and dulled him, had begun to sway with the arrival of his father's army. And now, standing amid the remnants of battle, as fellow warriors gathered up the wounded and treaded among motionless black corpses, he could see the green flag in the morose air, flapping in the heavy silence. The song of battle had died down, the pounding of his heart now a distant echo. The maddening beats of drums had faded, and with the screaming melody went his dance of death, the beautiful and terrible ritual he performed as his soul watched from afar and his heart slumbered in oblivion. And now, all was over, all settled down to ashes and dust; and standing at the horizon of victory, he was enveloped in nothing but a weary sadness, as he raised his forlorn eyes toward the dulled rays of the sun.

His father had come to their aid. All would be well; no lives were lost. He had led his people through the darkness. They had survived.

And yet, he was tired. Sad. And he wanted to cry.

He blinked as the murmur of people blurred around him, eyes blankly watching the movements of the elves as they loaded injured companions onto carts and stretchers.

"284 injured," he said numbly, eyes distant and lost. "61 are wounded gravely, though not mortally. 37 became ill with orc poison, and none remain unscathed."

"You have done well," replied the quiet king.

Legolas did not respond. He remained silent still, as his father slowly stepped closer. He dropped his gaze. Disinterested eyes watched red blood trickle down his own calf.

They had held out this long, and they had survived. But his father had come to him in his wearied state, had been forced to arrive with reinforcements. His father held a sword in his wearied hands, his dulled blond hair tightly bound in warrior plaits. A blood-stained war bow upon his back, an empty quiver of arrows thrown carelessly to the side. It was his father, the familiar form of the broad-shouldered father who had always been so. The familiar back of the king, the tall shadow that always stood before him, told him to stay back.

He had seen his father's back many times. And his father had always been thus, proud and strong, broad and tall. Even when wounded, even when poisoned, he had held the indomitable flame of life in his eyes, steel lacing his words. He had always looked down at him with a smile, the tall figure that stood against the scattering rays of the sun, the unwavering center of the universe that held the fragmented golden rays together.

And thus was his father, as far back as he could remember, all throughout his childhood, his adolescence, all of his life. He had always been so.

So why did it hurt to look at his father like this again? To see him injured and armed, fatigued and smiling, fighting with his back turned toward him? Just like he had always done?

Biting his lip, Legolas hung his head.

No, he had failed. He had succeeded, but he had failed miserably all the same.

His lowered eyes traced the weary skin of his father's hands, the bandages that outlined his body underneath the cloak. He closed his eyes.

"Father." His voice was a whisper. "I'm sorry."

He breathed heavily. The air was thick, suffocating. He could not breathe.

"Legolas."

The quiet call prompted him to raise his gaze. The young prince watched, a thin glaze forming in his eyes, as the king neared him, finally standing only a breath away. Heavy dust danced around them, blurring the outline of the bodies that moved, the time that flowed slowly through the thick red fog. And the blurred worlds whirled around him, clashing and merging – the past which had always been, the blurred future that he had wanted to create. What he had longed to change. The latter was now an illusion, what he had failed to accomplish. And standing between the whirling worlds of dream and reality, enveloped in the fog of dusty blood that rested against his teeth and invaded his tongue, his father stood as he had always done, smiling, a loose cloak tapping against concealed bandages. And he was once again the magnetic center of the universe that pulled the scattered rays of the sun together, and Legolas was pulled toward the endless pools of his eyes, the sparkling depths which threatened to overwhelm his feeble soul.

He wanted to look away.

And yet the worlds continued to dance around him, pulling him into a dizzy vortex that centered around the tall figure of his father. And he could not resist the pull, the magnetizing light in his father's eyes. Moans of pain and shuffling of feet became silent; the heavy wails of the trees were engulfed in the timeless silence of his father's tender smile.

Pale blue eyes glimmered as the father tilted his head.

"I came to see you." He spread his arms, smile glowing ever softly. "Did you not miss me too, little Greenleaf?"

Azure blue eyes glazed. Legolas bit his lip. And try as he might, he could not struggle against the call, the warmth that beckoned to the tired head that leaned heavily into his father's breast. And burying his bowed head into his father's embrace, the weary walls creaked and groaned, the invisible cracks of the unfinished earth reaching higher, higher, until the wall came crashing down. Soundless tremors rippled throughout his body, and pale fingers shakily gripped the fabric of his father's sleeves, retreating into the warm embrace of his father's arms.

Perhaps when the unfinished work had been demolished, thrown back onto the hard earth, shattering into pieces, becoming dust once again – perhaps patient hands would then begin a new work, a stronger one, a smoother one – and even if that one crashed and exploded in the bright dance of flames, back to soft dust upon the earth once again, there would be built another, and another, and it would be stronger, smoother, a never-ending perfection of the unfinished earth.

Haldir turned from the last medical cart, gaze sweeping through the desolate site of death and hope. And standing amid the blood and dust of weary life, the form of the young commander who had marked a new page in Mirkwood history was but a shaking child, clinging to his father's embrace.

The Lorien warrior raised his eyes. The sky was so blue. So blue.

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The End

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End file.
